


When Love Comes To Town

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, book-set
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 23:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: There were times, Seamus decided, when being him sucked. [Seamus/Dean, set during OotP.]





	1. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For. [Sep 12.]

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to Fiction Alley in 2003. Thank you to Cora for the beta, to Clio and Cora for the inspiration.

There were times, Seamus decided, when being him sucked. Absolutely and completely sucked. And not, upon reflection, in the good way either. This time, he couldn't blame it on permanently squabbling parents; couldn't even make a remark about what a festering sore on the pus-filled face of humanity his sister was. Yes, that probably was going a bit too far, but Seamus figured that anyone who met Niamh would agree. 

There was just something wrong about someone who was so terribly nice, you know? It was as if she existed for the sole purpose of reminding the rest of humanity - ie. Seamus - exactly what he should be like and exactly what he'd never measure up to.

Anyway. This wasn't about his sister. Unfortunately.

This time he only had himself to blame, and he resolutely, utterly, three times yes sir, no sir, thank you very much sir absolutely refused to do it.

So he blamed the school instead, and Harry because he was easy to blame, and Dean, because he was not.

Especially as Dean was refusing to talk to him. No. Since that meal, he'd given Seamus the cold shoulder, torso and half a leg, turning away when Seamus tried to say a word. Even just a _word_. A 'hello.' A 'will', as part of a larger 'will you help me with my Divination homework?' It wasn't as if he was debating bloody politics or philosophy or insulting his mother or anything deep and meaningful like that which had everyone _else_ still had time for. No, it was just one single word which Dean hadn't even let him finish.

And he pulled away when Seamus touched him. Which wasn't a big deal because Seamus didn't _like_ to touch him, of course he didn't, Dean was a _guy_ and Seamus didn't _enjoy_ touching other guys, but you know, it was just a reassuring kind of thing that best friends - guy friends, no, not _boy_ friends - did with each other and he didn't make him gay. Or them gay. Cause, you know, Seamus wasn't. And he didn't think Dean was either. Except now he couldn't ask whether Dean thought Seamus was hitting on him or not because Dean was being about as responsive as a big black rock!

And Seamus didn't mean black in any sort of racist sense. It was you know, just a technical adjective type descriptive thingy.

So, Seamus bit down on his anger and his annoyance and his frustration until one afternoon, many weeks after the Beginning of his Social Isolation, when he finally caught Dean alone in the Gryffindor dorms.

"I don't want to talk about it." Dean's tone was dismissive, almost contemptuous. Fuck it, _Dean_ was dismissive and almost contemptuous.

"You don't want to talk about a lot of things. You also don't want to talk to me." Seamus was hurt and angry, lashing out and beyond caring, stalking behind Dean as the taller boy strode to his bed. "Let's be honest here-"

"Fine." Dean whirled, crossing his arms, and Seamus had to come up short in order not to bump into him. "We'll be honest. You and your mother seem to think that Harry is not only a raving loony but also quite possibly a murderer. Next thing you'll be saying Sirius Black is actually guilty and the Ministry has it right."

"Well, we just know he didn't kill Pettigrew," Seamus pointed out, rather unhelpfully. "He still might have killed the Potters for all we know."

Dean shot him a black look, and one hand moved to massage a temple. "What about Harry?"

"It's just what she said," Seamus huffed in response and crossed his own arms. "And I couldn't just let Harry - or anyone-" he added with a glare and a complete lack of subtlety, "get away with dissing her?" 

"Dissing her? Where the fuck have you been hanging out, Degrassi Fucking Junior High?" Seeing Seamus didn't get the reference Dean shook his head sharply, once, and started riffling through his bedside drawer. "Never mind." 

"Mum tells me I've picked up all these Muggle phrases," Seamus chimed in, completely oblivious to the hole he was digging himself in. "Next thing you know I'll be acting like you lot." 

"You lot?" Dean's back arched, but he didn't turn around. He just sounded very _very_ angry. "And how do we sound, Seamus? Like a bunch of silly idiots who can't use magic and therefore deserve to get knocked off, before we ruin this planet for wizarding kind? Oh, sorry, poor you. Please, feel free to kill me now."

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"Yeah, well, what the hell did you mean it like then?" Dean turned on him again, brandishing a quill, which broke Seamus' concentration.

"...What are you going to do, write angry pro-Muggle slogans all over me?" 

Dean sighed. "I broke my quill, remember? And even if I did, I'm sure they'd bounce right off your pureblood skin - oh, that's right Seamus, your Dad's a Muggle, what, did your Mum raise you to hate him as well? Bet you're a good boy, just waiting for your father to get sent off to the concentration camp!"

Seamus had never seen Dean so angry, or so open. Usually he was the taciturn one, the one that kept things to his chest for the sake of them all, who could be depended upon to be dependable. But now Dean was enraged, and Seamus was enraged over the fact he was the one who caused it.

He backed away, one foot after the other, jaw set, and voice awfully cold. "You know what? You know nothing about me. Or my family. You don't understand a thing about the dynamics or the culture or the history because you're not a part of it. You're _nothing_ here. _A_ nothing. An outsider. Someone we rescued and benefited with things you couldn't even dream of. You're lucky we don't just sit you in the corner between lessons and give you a bucket to piss in. And maybe Mum's right when she says that at least wizards don't kill each other because we're different skin colours or genders or religions or sexualities. At least we don't poison the planet and rape the earth. Let's think about who actually does that, shall we? You! Muggles! You'd think by now you would have killed yourselves off as a species but you can't even manage that properly."

Seamus looked at Dean, breathing sharply in and out, in and out, the only noise that of his own breathing. From the shocked look on Dean's face he could tell he'd done something very wrong indeed. And then the other Gryffindor swept by him before Seamus could even start gibbering an apology, and he was left alone in the Gryffindor dorms.

Seamus Finnigan took a few minutes to sum up the situation. And then he lashed out with a foot in the general direction of one of the beds. The beds at Hogwarts would made of centuries old mahogany, treated and charmed by spells to be virtually unbreakable. Seamus' foot, however, was not.

"Ow," he said, in a very small voice, because it was the only way he trusted himself to say it. "Owowowow bloody fucking fuckering fucker..." And in a similar manner, back hunched over, he hobbled all the way to Madame Pomfrey's, and told her he'd broken his toes falling down the stairs. 

Another thing he refused to blame himself for.


	2. Gone. [Sep 29 - Nov 1.]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having to rely on himself for entertainment, Seamus decides to go in search and some new friends, and discovers more about his fellow students than he'd like. [Set during OotP.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Cora for the beta and Maya for letting me use her characterisation of the Hufflepuffs.

They used to be inseparable, if for no other reason than because people expected them to be. For four years Seamus would always get asked where Dean was, and other Gryffindors looked at him funny if he didn't know. It wasn't just Gryffindors either; to the entire school, staff and students both, they were one whole and discrete unit, like some funny symbiotic creature Hagrid dug up for them in Care of Magical Creatures. Seamus wasn't especially comfortable with that and, like those creatures, he didn't want to be pointed at, lectured about, and poked with a stick. 

Fifth year came, and people were still asking him where Dean was, but it was different this time. Rather than asking as if they actually cared about Dean, or him for that matter, this was a test. Every question was framed by narrowed eyes and the hint of a smirk. _Are you still friends, Seamus? Or has he dumped you like everyone else did?_ That was what they were asking. And so when he stumbled for an answer, they smiled like they were at a funeral, and walked away. Seamus _hated_ that.

Dean was holding him back. Gryffindor was holding him back. They were _all_ holding him back. Oh, it was for the best of reasons, he was sure. After all, they were heroes and he was not; heroes were never wrong, and therefore he had to be. Seamus was tired of waiting for his freedom, for the next smart remark about his mother, for the next time he was asked about Dean. He kept expecting himself to know, and felt wrong when he didn't.

He wanted to be more than just 'Seamus-and-Dean'. He wanted to be Seamus.

Whoever that was.

So Seamus resolutely decided not to fall back into old patterns. Old-Seamus was gone, along with Dean, Harry and all other saving the world and having an appropriate parental viewpoint type things. And, two and a bit weeks after their fight, he thought he was succeeding.

Admittedly, since he didn't have Dean to hang around with, he needed to find some other people. Because, well, he didn't want to look like a complete loser. Whether he actually was or not was entirely immaterial, and as Seamus kept telling himself, rather unquantifiable. It was all a matter of perspective, he decided in the end, and that kept his bundle of neuroses at bay for at least another month.

In Dean's place Seamus had first attached himself to Lavender and Parvati, who were both nice, friendly, strapping girls, the kind that Ron would glance over at in the library and ask very softly if anyone wanted a piece of _that_ action. Of course, if Hermione had heard him Ron probably would have been castrated, but she hadn't, and so his manhood always remained intact. But Ron wasn't asking him that question any more, so at least Seamus didn't have to lie and say he did. See? He was already finding the positives in things. This would go better than he thought.

He was nudged out of his half-daydream by what was, surprisingly, a nudge. From Lavender's elbow.

"You alright, Seamus?" Lavender was looking at him curiously, and if Lavender was looking at him curiously than Parvati was looking at him as if he might spontaneously transfigure into something bizarre and wonderful at any moment - or already had.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmured, running fingers through light brown hair, and shook himself slightly. It was quite warm in the common room, and they'd been nattering on about Trelawney's class. He favoured them with a special grin that was surely destined to melt the heart of any female. Didn't seem to work though. Bugger.

"Were we boring you?" Parvati asked, in that very careful, cautious tone which people use before they're about to perform grievous bodily harm upon someone.

"No, no," Seamus muttered, trying not to sound forced, or hurried, or do anything that might provoke the gleam in her eye. "I'm just er, narcoleptic, that's all."

The two girls looked at each other. "We haven't noticed this before, Seamus," said Lavender, tartly, and Seamus decided it was time to broaden his horizons. Certainly they were fun company and good for a laugh, but they chatted all the time and after two weeks now of hearing them discuss make up, divination and boys, he'd had enough. The first topic bewildered him, the second made him feel left out, and the third made him vaguely uncomfortable.

"Oh, look, here's Professor Trelawney," Seamus said, stretching, and looked over their shoulders at the staircase as if someone was coming down it. Instantly, both girls turned to look, and by the time they'd turned back Seamus had scarpered out the portrait hole.

A month later, and Seamus was still sorting out his options. He'd tried hanging round the male Hufflepuffs, but Ernie seemed to get twitchy any time he came near them, declaiming in a very loud voice that Certain People Were Not To Be Trusted and Clearly Indicative of Having Hidden Agendas. Seamus had politely told him where he could stick his hidden agenda, and turned his attention to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who sadly, had turned his own attention back on Seamus. He'd regaled Seamus with stories of Muggles - which Seamus found as just as unbelievable and just as silly as those told by his father, except now they were being verified - and after a few afternoons of that, he'd invited Seamus to play a game that was apparently, 'all the rage at Eton.'

Ten minutes later, and Seamus had staggered out of the library cubicle doing up his tie, and protesting that really, anatomy wasn't his thing, and the bloody English were obviously far more fucked up than even he'd realised.

The Hufflepuff girls were nice, if a bit bland - although Hannah Abbott was forever prattling on about the brilliance of the House, and how it was so devalued and misunderstood by the staff, the other students, the Hat and everyone who didn't listen to her. Seamus had quickly realised that she had a chip on her shoulder the size of a small island chain, and fled to more hospitable climes. Not that he empathised about bearing a grudge, no, not him. He was sensible and apolitical and nice. And stuff. 

His time as a honourary Ravenclaw had lasted just over two weeks as, really, there was only so much eyeliner a guy could wear without making Seamus feel distinctly nauseous, and Kevin Entwhistle crossed that line several bottles ago. That wasn't the straw the broke the blast-ended skrewts shell, either. That was Terry Boot, Mr. Walking Dictionary himself, managing to insert 'antidisestablishmentarianism' into casual conversation, and then challenged Seamus to define it. 

Seamus had done so. "'Antidisestablishmentarianism': word the use of which proves whoever used it has never had sex, or any chance of doing so in his lifetime."

Then he'd had to run from that section of the library before Boot thwacked him over the head with a copy of Roget's Thesaurus (Magical Edition). Some people, he reflected, didn't have a sense of humour. Like Madam Pince, for example, who gave him the detention for running in the library.

Now, he'd run out of options. This was his freedom, alright, and it was like a bloody chain around his neck. Freedom. Woo. But he wasn't about to back down, turn tail and admit he was wrong _now_.

So Seamus took a deep breath, and set off for the corridors around the Slytherin dorms.


	3. Hallelujah Here She Comes. [Nov 20-Jan 15.]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth will always out itself, Seamus...And so, it seems, will you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Cora for the beta.

Seamus blandly gazed out at the Quidditch Pitch, his feet up on the back on the chair in front of him, not especially caring about what that said regarding his regard for the sport, the pitch, the stands, the school, or any intellectual or emotional concepts that underpinned their various physical realities. Indeed, his whole demeanour of refined nonchalance was typical Seamus: half bullshit and the other half dumb luck.

He stretched, and couldn't help but yawn, blushing immediately. He shot the girl sitting next to him an apologetic glance, and fumbled about a bit for his next move, crossing and uncrossing his legs at the ankle, before finally and somewhat self-consciously resting his feet back down on the wooden slats of the stands.

"Quite the performance," Pansy Parkinson teased, glancing over at him, before turning her attention back to the figures scurrying over and upon the pitch itself. "The thing about you, Seamus, is that your performances are completely honest, in their own way."

"Uh. Thanks." He had known Pansy for just over three weeks - well, technically he'd known her since first year, obviously, but he never associated with her, talked to her socially, attempted to know her, until now. And she was a strange girl, but then, he couldn't exactly say any Slytherin was _normal_. Blaise talked to the walls, Millicent point blank refused to use any word that had a positive connotation, and Draco only had conversations as long as they involved himself. Seamus was a bit leery of them all, but Pansy had taken an interest in him, even if he did feel like a pet. The others generally ignored or pitied him, or a disturbing combination of both.

Apart from Draco, who made his contempt abundantly clear, and so Seamus himself stayed well clear of Draco. Which wasn't too hard. Pansy and Draco weren't actually joined at the hip, despite the Gryffindor rumour wagon. It was interesting to see them from another perspective. And that was all he'd done for the first week: watch. They weren't the stereotypical villains they were rumoured to be: sure they were vicious, petty, underhanded, scheming and arrogant to boot, narcissists and paranoiacs and neurotics, but Seamus figured that he might end up that way as well if everyone else decided to hate you out of course.

Then he realised that everyone did hate him out of course and so he very well could end up like that. This led to him avoiding people and twitching at odd occasions for about a week, but he got over it. After Pansy found him and slapped him. Which fortunately wasn't public.

So, they talked, and kept talking. He'd never exactly found out why she tracked him down - or slapped him for that matter - and he wasn't entirely sure he _wanted_ to know why, but they made an odd couple. The sanest Slytherin, and the most insane Gryffindor.

And it was fun. She was fun. Half-crazed, not to be trusted, and capable of having worse mood swings than Harry at his worst, but she didn't judge him, and she was entertaining. Seamus needed someone who didn't judge him; he needed someone to distract him, and it seemed like Pansy did as well. Even if she didn't sayit . Which she never would, because Slytherins seemed to have this bizarre interpersonal code about not revealing any weaknesses. Dean might have observed how they were more blokey and macho than any group of sexually repressed army cadets, but he was not here to make such observations. Which was, upon reflection, part of the point.

They even exchanged owls over Christmas. This, Seamus decided, was well weird. They'd studied together, and chatted between classes, and sat together in one or two classes, and Seamus resolutely ignored the stares and nasty looks from his fellow Gryffindors. After all, if they wanted to treat him like a leper, what the fuck did they expect him to do, except join the bloody colony?

Right now they were observing the Slytherin Quidditch team practice, as they did every Friday afternoon. It was a sort of ritual for them: watching Draco show off, and completely fail to unite the team, which he then got to practice with the type of shouted threats that could be heard amongst the stands. Pansy watched, and sighed, as she always did, seeming disappointed. Seamus didn't pry. It wasn't his place. 

Of course, Seamus had always had vague unsubstantiated longings to play Quidditch for Gryffindor, but there were always better players. Now, he figured next year he would have had a chance, except for two things. One was Umbridge, but no DADA teacher ever lasted longer than a year, so she'd go come the end of the term and so would her ban. The second was the fact that anyone who was going to have any say in the matter probably hated him, so that did that idea in.

Finally the rest of the team walked off and Draco zoomed up on his broom to say hello to Pansy, with a brief look of sheer disgust at Seamus. At this point, Seamus usually looked away while he exchanged a few words to Pansy, and they politely ignored each other while Seamus tuned out from the conversation. This was normal; indeed, it was a stable point of necessary normality in Seamus' madcap life.

Okay, maybe he was exaggerating just a little bit but his mutual disdain of and with Draco Malfoy was something he'd come to depend upon, in these strange crazy days. And he was being far too descriptive and self-reflexive for his own liking. Blaming it on the change in company (or perhaps lack of company), that day, Seamus did not ignore Draco. He stared.

Draco Malfoy being Draco Malfoy refused to acknowledge him, because, you know, theories of evolution and racial separation and what not meant that he couldn't really without breaking some kind of deeply seated and contradictory internal code which, quite frankly, Seamus didn't give a fuck about. So he stared, and Draco started biting his lower lip as he talked to Pansy. Seamus stared, and sweat started beading on Draco's forehead. Pansy seemed to notice Draco's discomfort as well, and drew the conversation out as Draco's replies got more and more terse with each passing second. Finally, his resolve broke, and still clad in Quidditch robes, he strode back over the seats to the edge of the stand, and hopped on his hovering broom, making his way back to the locker rooms.

Seamus kept staring as Draco left, absently noting the way his robes fluttered in the wind, the curve of his backside on the broom, and the faint whiff of his hairgel still in the air.

Pansy turned to Seamus, although he was too busy staring to catch the amused expression on her face. "He is quite good-looking, isn't he?"  
  
"Yeah," Seamus said absently, slumping slightly in the seat and bored out of his mind, "I mean, he's not oh my god handsome, but there's something about him." He suddenly realised what he'd just said and sat upright in the chair, stiff as a board, fingers curled over the edges of his seat, knuckles white. "No! I didn't-" Seamus turned, desperate to clear his name and retain the last vestiges of his much-needed heterosexuality. "You tricked me! I only meant, you know, platonically and all. Guys can find each other attractive, it doesn't mean anything."  
  
"Right." An eyebrow was raised, and she lifted one delicate finger to curl under his jaw and tip his face up. Seamus felt as if he was under inspection, and his skin was flushed red even before this latest embarrassment. She laughed, amused, and he noticed that her laugh tinkled like chimes before she finally let go. He lowered his head automatically, and stared. Clearly she'd found something worthy in her brief search. Maybe he _was_ just a toy to her, a source of a good laugh or two. Before he could get angry, she spoke. "There's nothing wrong with finding men attractive you know." She leaned in, and winked. "Well, if there is, I'm doomed to an eternity in hell, for one thing."  
  
Seamus couldn't help but smile back, despite himself, although the smile soon fell. "Oh," he murmured, and looked down at the wooden floor of the stands. "Bugger. I never really thought about it - I mean, I thought I could control it, and ignore it, and stuff. I didn't want to disappoint me Mam. Or anyone." He sounded very lonely, and very small.  
  
She gave him a sympathetic pat on the cheek. "The truth will always out itself, Seamus." Then she couldn't help but smirk. "And so, it seems, will you."

Again, he smiled half heartedly, but he was in full angst mode, really. "I didn't want to be more of a freak. Cause. No-one else has come out. What if I'm the only one?"

Pansy's lips thinned. "Seamus. Stop feeling so self-indulgent and self-pitying. This is a sex-segregated school. Even if you don't find some nice queer chap, I'm sure you'll be able to become the willing bit on the side of many available heterosexual students wanting to get off." She leaned across and patted him gently on the wrist, and smiled. Pansy seemed to be serious. That was even more disturbing than the mental images her words actually provoked.

Seamus decided then and there that anything was better than this. Yes. Even Hufflepuff. But even if he was going to spend his time watching Ernie twitch and Justin fondle him for reasons that were entirely to do with his own psychological fitness, and nothing to do with the fact that Justin was actually as gay someone who was very gay (bad use of metaphor there, Seamus reflected, and realised he was getting far too self-referential again) he still needed to be honest. Even if the people he was going to be honest to didn't actually give a toss.

Which was probably a good thing, all things considered.


	4. Desire. [Feb 4-23.]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now on his own again, Seamus must brave the Hufflepuffs, and attempt to find a place for himself. Someone said something about the best laid plans of mice and men...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Cora for the beta.

Honesty was the best policy, but it took a lot of guts. And right now, if one was being specific and technical, Seamus was somewhat lacking in ballsy courage and jaunty derring-do. So for a while, he spent time being honest to himself, and desperately pretending the rest of the world didn't exist.

Lovely plan. Wonderful in theory. Shame about the practice. For one thing, Seamus was currently back to associating with Hufflepuffs, because they weren't as freaky as the Slytherins, as anal as the Ravenclaws, or well, as anti-him as the Gryffindors. This meant adjusting to certain things; for example, the realisation that Hufflepuffs were incredibly loyal, they just weren't incredibly loyal to the same thing, or even each other. Which meant that internal Hufflepuff politics were probably more fraught with danger than anything Sinn Fein could have come up with. So Seamus generally kept his head down, his tone even, and his opinions strictly to himself.

Besides, it took his mind of his own problems, watching the small disparate group of Hufflepuff sixth years tear chunks out of each other twice a day (and three times on Sundays) and then reconcile after dinner, through elaborate tea making, gift giving and hand holding ceremonies. Potentially the worst thing he had to deal with was Ernie, or rather Ernie who had stayed over at Justin's during the holidays, and been introduced to B-grade spy films. He'd suggested twice now that Seamus was actually Blaise Zabini in disguise, and ever gone so far as to grab Seamus' ear, and tug, claiming that in fact, Seamus' face was a mask. What Ernie had gotten for his trouble was a rather pissy Gryffindor clutching at said ear and dedicated to slapping him round the head for the next half hour or so. Fortunately Ernie did, eventually, get it.

Justin however, did not. Justin had a tendency to pick fights. He would pout, and rant, and declaim loudly about his honour and the history of the Finch-Fletchleys. He'd curl his hands into fists, and ponce about as if he was in a very camp boxing tournament, and then he'd dive, grabbing whoever around the waist and hurling them to the ground. He only called other male students out to fight, claiming that women were far too tender and retiring. When Millicent Bullstrode attempted to call him on that, Justin screamed like a girly-boy and ran.

Seamus wouldn't have minded the fights so much if they didn't involve the tackling. Because after the tackling, the fighting turned into a rather messy struggle, and then it turned into something else entirely - last time Seamus checked, the definition of fighting did not require one's opponent to have his hand on one's arse. Most disturbing was the time in which they were mucking about inside the Hufflepuff common room, and Justin had him pinned to the floor and seemed to be dry humping his leg. Canine activities nonwithstanding, this clearly wasn't good enough, as he called Ernie over to "help restrain the nefarious Irish miscreant." Seamus saw the gleam in Ernie's eye and had a fairly good idea of the kind of extra study they might have been doing together. And for all that as a good, honest, well brought up Catholic boy, the idea of a threesome was like manna from heaven, Ernest Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley were not, and would never be, his choice of partners. 

As for who would be, well, the school was a veritable smorgasbord of potential gay love. Not in the explicit sense - it wasn't that people were jumping each other in the halls (well, besides Justin) - but once he'd come out to himself, and really let his hormones out of check, Seamus found himself looking at almost every male student Hogwarts had of a certain age. Even the ugly ones. Of course, that would induce shuddering and the devout resolve never to look at them again, but he couldn't help it. The moment Seamus clapped eyes on a bloke, he considered the three hundred and twenty seven different sexual positions that he and that particular male could get up to at various times and places. It seemed to be some sort of primal urge that overcompensated for his previous bout of self-denial, back when he thought that yes, picturing Hermione in a nightie will make me straight and aroused like a normal manly-man.

He'd never noticed his fellow students before, not nearly in such...imaginative detail. And he didn't seem to be able to stop noticing. Days went by when he couldn't concentrate on his work at all because he thought about the way Draco smirked or the curve of Harry's arse or the colour of Ron's hair (ugh, Ron, ugh, why couldn't he have taste?) Most worryingly, was the fact he'd caught himself staring at Dean every now and again. Because really, even though Seamus had little or no contact with Muggle culture, gay culture or the relationship between, he did understand that even for wizards, it was definitely a bad thing to want to hit on your best friend. Not that he was in love with him, no, that would be silly and pointless and lead to far too much trauma so it couldn't be a possibility. Then he remembered he'd thought the same thing about his chance of being gay, and wanted to kick someone. Preferably himself.

In any event, there was that whole thing about Dean hating him. Which Seamus didn't think would dissipate with the offer of a friendly blowjob. Not that he was the type to offer someone friendly blowjobs.

Right.

Of course, no-one knew about his sexuality, except Pansy, and himself, but that didn't seem quite fair, really. As if he was doing all this unfortunate ogling on false pretences. After all, they didn't know and couldn't suspect. He was behaving like Justin in a sense, and that thought turned his stomach. If Justin Finch-Fletchley was an example of how the closeted gay wizard behaved Seamus didn't want to be closed. Well, technically he didn't want to be gay either, but he figured that no amount of thinking about Hermione in a nightie would change that now. Besides, that mental image made him vaguely nauseous. Some things were meant for Ron only. 

It was would be a sort of moral victory, Seamus supposed, as he trudged along the corridors towards Gryffindor Tower. He would tell them, they wouldn't give a toss, and thereby prove there worthlessness as human beings. Or something. It could almost become a parable, or a catechism. A story told to children for their edification and enjoyment. He would have been honest, and upfront, and that was already making the remnants of his strict Catholic conscience breath a sigh of relief and let up on the mental considerations of how many Hail Mary's he'd need to get out of this one: or, considering the Catholic Church's attitude to homosexuality, would he need to be absolved for lying about being gay, and then absolved for being honest about being gay? Really, it was far too confusing for him, so Seamus settled on thinking of other things. Like Malfoy's arse. Ugh. No. Or perhaps Dean- Argh. Double no. Except of course a double negative would be yes, but Seamus curtailed that line of thought by smacking himself across the head.

It was a dark and stormy night, or so the tale went, and it was raining heavily down on Hogwarts. Even secluded by the safe stone walls of Gryffindor Tower, they could feel it heaving about them, the wind and sleet and cold. Warm and cozy in the Gryffindor common room, a small group of students tried so painfully to look inconspicuous, and in doing, stood out like sore thumbs. 

Harry Potter sat on the couch, legs slightly splayed, a hand to his head as if he was recovering from a headache or stress, and Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and his sister Ginny were grouped around him. They talked in hushed whiss, glancing occasionally at the other students who were grouped about the commons, in ones or twos or threes, conversing amongst themselves.

Most of them had learnt by now anyway that it did not pay to listen in on the goings-on surrounding Harry Potter. That way lead to possession or petrification or death, so they did their best not to notice.

The entire commons was disturbed by a familiar figure who trod in through the portrait hole as it swung wide open in front of him, wringing his hands, his Gryffindor tie askew and hair slightly ruffled as he came towards the group on the couch, who pointedly ignored him until they could no longer afford to.

"What do you want? Ron asked, grumbling.

Seamus Finnigan wrung his hands some more and looked abjectly uncomfortable. "Well, y'see, I've been going through a lot lately, and stuff, and I just wanted to say that, well, it's difficult for me, but I have to be honest about it all, and I might as well tell you first because you don't give a fuck and if I can tell you I can tell anyone." He paused, bringing his hands firmly down by his side and took a deep breath. "Right. So. You can do it, Seamus," he told himself, and looked up at them again. "I'm gay."

The whole room froze, and there was a long pause. Hermione spoke first.

"Seamus, the whole world knows you're gay."

"Oh." Seamus scuffed his foot on the floor. It was not the reaction he expected, and to be perfectly frank he had no idea where to go from here. "I'll be going, now..." He said, jerking his thumb somewhere undefined, before trotting up the stairwell to the dorms two at a time and scarpering.

Later, before bed, Seamus decided it did make for a lovely little narrative. Although perhaps it had to be twigged to avoid the fact he looked like a fuckwit at the end. It highlighted something he'd always felt around Harry and the others: that he was just a supporting character, guaranteed a walk-on role at best. His only purpose was of sidekick, sounding board and token Irishman: if he tried to do anything more, like have an opinion, Seamus would become an inconvenience, his objections brushed aside by the flow of narrative, the force of history. That was the thing that happened when you had the saviour of the wizarding world as a (estranged) friend: it was Harry's story, and not his, because he could not win the war.

Seamus could imagine future historians reducing him to a mere footnote in the grand path of wizarding history, or "that Irish lad who went to school with Harry Potter." Only fifteen, and he felt the untold generations judging him already, arguing over his motivations, attempting to make sense of him in the scheme of things. Just a character in someone else's book, a part of history, predictable with twenty-twenty hindsight. 

It was fucking stifling.

Still, he decided in the end, it could be worse. The Muggles could make one of their films about Harry's life. And knowing his luck, they'd cast someone unbearably ugly in the role. Although they'd had to cast someone hot for Dean. Because you know, he was.

"Argh," said Seamus, once he'd realised what he'd thought.

"Did you just say 'argh'?" Dean whispered, sleepily, and there was a rustle of bedsheets in the nearest bed to him, which was, of course, Dean's.

Seamus froze immediately. It was ages since they'd talked in any way beyond the strictly functional, and he was seized by the fear that if he offended Dean now, that was it, game over. "Uh. No?"

"Come on, I heard you." From the sounds in the dorms, others were beginning to stir, so Seamus did the correct and honourable thing. 

He closed his eyes and pretended to snore.


	5. When Love Comes To Town. [Feb 24-May 13.]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old vinyl albums of his father's aside, Seamus was pleased to learn that sorry did not seem to be the hardest word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Cora for the beta, Clio for the inspiration, and Maya for allowances.

Old vinyl albums of his father's aside, Seamus was pleased to learn that sorry did not seem to be the hardest word. The following morning, he had sat down to breakfast with the rest of the Gryffindors and ignored the pointed glares and glances that could all be reduced to one very simple phrase - a familiar two word incantation which started with a 'f' and ended in an 'off', more useful than any Latin. Dean had been typical Dean, really, shovelling food down his throat as if he thought he was going to turn to skin and bones sometime within the next sixty seconds. Seamus caught himself thinking that Dean's table manners didn't really matter when you considered the fact he was a great laugh, and a wonderful friend, and he had this smile-

Seamus stopped himself halfway through a piece of toast and put the piece down on the plate. He was gay, he knew that. He was a big, angsty, queer type person, although at least he wasn't as camp as a row of tents (or any number of Hufflepuffs.) In addition, it seemed he was Heavily Falling For His Best Friend, which despite some recent improvement in their relationship, still counted as #3 on the list of things which Seamus knew he Should Not Do, up there with Be Nice To My Sister, and Abuse Capitals When Thinking About Myself In A Pedantic and Self-Congratulatory Way.

Bugger.

"Do you want that bit of toast?" Dean asked, and when Seamus shook his head quickly, Dean scarfed it up with his knife and fork. Feeling suddenly panicky - he'd lost his appetite several uses of Capitals before - Seamus moved to rise from the bench, but Dean's hand shot across the table with a speed that would have made Harry jealous and grabbed hold of Seamus' lower arm. Dean tightened slightly, almost painfully, and Seamus was almost too bewildered by the action to fully register the slight twinge.

"I think we have something to discuss first, yeah?" Dean spoke low, still seemingly concerned with wiping up the last bit of egg from his plate, and when Seamus returned to his seat with a slight 'ooof' (due to sitting too hard too fast on the hard wooden bench), he let Seamus' wrist go and returned his attention fully to his meal. Overdoing it slightly for effect and possible sympathy, Seamus let out an audible wince of pain and rubbed his wrist. The entire table was watching them now, but Seamus only had one particular audience in mind.

"Not here, though," added Dean, and wiped his mouth a napkin. Dean then baled it up in a fist and threw it onto his plate, arching back over the bench with his long legs and strode over towards the main exit. He didn't check to see if Seamus was following, but Seamus thought that was sort of the point. Shrugging helplessly at the assorted stares of his fellow housemates, who only seemed too happy to find something else to blame him for, Seamus quickly trailed after his erstwhile best friend.

It was a relatively easy matter to slip out of the Great Hall and into the side corridor - the hubbub of breakfast was quickly hushed by the sheer bulk of the thick mahogany doors, and Seamus could almost imagine that this was a proper castle, a castle like something out of a bard's tale, or a story of Amhairghin and Eriu, or the fables his father used to tell him when he was a child and believed in a certain kind of magic. The magic his father told him about was mysterious, and always had a price even if you couldn't be sure what it was. It was real because it was dangerous; it wasn't his mother muttering a cleaning charm to do the washing or his sister fixing something new with her hair. Real magic burned when you played with it, and the castles in stories always had traps.

It was dark in the corridor, shadows playing on the walls, and it was suddenly so very quiet. Anything could happen here. And then Dean came out from the shadows behind him and clamped a hand on his shoulder and Seamus squealed, nearly pissing himself in fright.

"What did you do that for?" he rounded on his supposed best mate, indignation writ large. 

Dean was too busy bent over laughing to answer probably. "You should...have...seen your face," he managed to get out, the tears running down his cheeks. Not feeling especially charitable, Seamus grabbed his shoulders and kneed him in the balls. Dean made this face that was a cross between shock, pain and constipation, and went down like a sack of potatoes.

Seamus didn't want to see Dean's face. He didn't want to hear him, or acknowledge what he'd just done, or the fact that really, he probably had just extinguished whatever hope he ever had of saying 'I love you' without getting laughed at. He turned on his heel and strode away as fast as his legs could take him without actually running. Because that would look, you know, guilty. Or distinctly uncool. Or gauche, which was a wonderful word Seamus had discovered when he'd realised he was gay and looked up the thesaurus in the vain hope of cultivating (see, there was another word he'd found) the proper type of vocabulary. 

Now being guilty was one thing, but appearing gauche? Seamus would rather die. Or wear pink taffeta. Well. Maybe that was a stretch. After all pink taffeta wasn't permanent. And he was good at memory charms.

However, despite his primal fight-or-stalk-off-in-a-moody-fit reflex, Seamus never got more than five steps away. It was perhaps a result of the strict Irish Catholic upbringing, or his mother's tendency to guilt trip, or his father's passive-aggressiveness, or the fact that, shamefully, Niamh was probably the Second Coming and even he couldn't ignore it (or her), but whatever passed for his conscience was yet again beating him over the head (metaphorically speaking) with its mitre and copy of Councils of Trent and Nicea. 

So he stopped. He turned. He looked at the floor. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He laced his fingers together, and stretched them. He opened his mouth, and-

"Aren't you going to help me up?" Dean implored.

Oh. Oh. Seamus sucked in his breath, and resisted his natural impulse to flee, scuttling forward and grabbing one of Dean's arms, pulling back and hauling him up in the process, looking quite comical. "Sorry," he said, tersely, dusting Dean off with his hands.

"That's alright," Dean replied, but he moved back from Seamus' touch quick enough.

Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger bugger. Or in laymen's terms, fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck. That was not a good Sign, in the whole history of Signs. And he was capitalising again. Seamus took a deep breath and stepped back, his hands held up, palms open, arms rigid. If Dean so much as moved he was tempted to deck him, and properly this time. He'd had enough of playing and pissing about and lying and sparing everyone else's feelings.

"Look," Seamus spat, backing up. "I _am_ sorry and I'm _not_ going to grope you, okay? I'm sorry that I insulted Harry, I'm sorry that I defended my mum, I'm sorry that I can't fit into your perfect little world."

With that, he marched off, head proudly held up. Now this was making an exit.

"Don't have a hissy fit," Dean called out. "Next you'll be more of a girl than the actual girls, mate!"

"I am not having a hissy fit!" Seamus yelled back, and turned to face him. But Dean was grinning, not scowling or anything else, and in a few moments Seamus was grinning too. He apologised to Harry the following day.

That night, Dean sat opposite him at dinner as he always did, and Seamus noticed a lot less glare going round the Gryffindor table. Fortunately, Pansy Parkinson was more than making up for it, the way she was giving him the eye.

"What's with Pansy, then?" Dean asked, around a mouthful of food. "She looks like she wants to off you or something."

"Oh," said Seamus, vaguely, and gestured with his fork. "I hung talking to her when I was in exile from all things heroic."

"I know," murmured Dean, eyebrow raised, and gave no further comment.

"Well. She's probably just annoyed I can't prostrate myself before her heaving bosom."

At this point Dean started choking on his broccoli, which Seamus decided was probably indicative of the sheer vileness of all vegetables. By the time Neville reached over to slap Dean on the back, everyone around the table was glaring at Seamus again.

Felt like old times. 

People got on with their lives. Time had a way of passing appropriate enough to the temporal constant and the speed of light, and many other scientific terms that Dean attempted to explain (rather badly) to Seamus one afternoon in March after Dean had leant him a copy of Arthur C. Clarke's _The City and the Stars_. In the end Dean had given up and just tried to get Seamus to think about all things scientific as a form of crude magic, because it was the only way he would accept them.

Of course, Seamus was torn between the discussion and looking at Dean during said discussion and moments like that - even if they were fleeting and isolated - were getting more and more frequent.

He was falling for him, hook, line, sinker and bloody pier, and there was seemingly nothing he could do about it. So, Seamus did what he did best in times of emotional crisis. He angsted. For the entire month of April, he mooched about Gryffindor Tower, hands in his pockets, bottom lip prominently stuck out, his entire body fixed in a pout. (It was something he'd practiced over many years of Coping With His Sister, and he'd perfected it in the mirror, and took great pride in it.)

No-one paid him any attention. Which was good in a sense, because there was less of a chance anyone could find out about His Secret Love. Also bad, because after, who was he pouting for if not someone whose identity might be vague and uncertain at best? Someone who would listen to his problems, hear him angst, and do the usual kind of thing one did to an angsty teenager. Not even _Dean_ gave him what he wanted (oh, there was a double entendre and a half.) Oh, they talked, and they did things, and they studied and they hung about together, but Dean never mentioned his moodiness - and even, once or twice, he'd caught Dean grinning at him, as if Seamus' depression was something to make light of! It was enough to make a man listen to the Wyrd Sisters' attempt at wailing depression and cynicism, entitled _Broken Little Charm_.

In a horrible moment of clarity Seamus realised he was becoming a cliché: he only needed to start writing out god-awful poetry (no offence to any superior deity, especially not his superior deity being intended there) and growing his hair long, and he'd really be It: The Troubled Gay Teenager.

He was still working out in his head whether that meant he should stop the manly brooding or not one Sunday in May, when Dean walked up to him, as he often did, and sat besides him on his bed, which he often did as well. Except for Dean being so close. Because he was close. Surprisingly close. The kind of close that set Seamus' heart aflutter and made him get all sweaty and palpitate and damn where was there a handcloth when he needed one? 

It was for occasions like this, Seamus supposed, that God invented trousers.

"Hey."

"Hey." Well, he was capable of replying coherently. That was a good sign.

Dean leaned in a little further. "Are you in love with me?" he asked, in a very sensible tone of voice.

"Gah," said Seamus. Bad sign. Bad. His mouth formed various shapes for a few moments as he attempted to make some kind of sense, trying to work out what he was going to say. Or possibly could say. It was for occasions like that that God had developed the human capacity to exclaim, "Oh, look behind you! It's McGonagall on a spot check of the dorms!" and do a runner. Except his pesky conscience was getting in the way again, muttering about divine will and eternal salvation. Seamus took a moment to curse God and then realised that he wouldn't be able to get off that one with just a Hail Mary. "Uh." Oh, good, he was being vaguely coherent again. "What. Makes you think. That?" he asked, the sentence seemingly broken into various individual parts, and he reached a hand up and over to scratch the back of his neck.

"Pansy Parkinson," Dean replied, and Seamus wondered how anyone could be so calm, so easy at a time like this. Then he caught himself thinking that Dean was 'easy' and giggled.

Dean made a face at him. "What's funny?"

"Uh, nothing, go on."

"Anyway," he continued, "she marched straight up to me, bold as brass and started telling me how the fact that you were stalking the corridors and generally looking like a drowned rat was upsetting the castle's aura and her karma. This was apparently because you are madly in love with me and want to jump my manly dark torso." Dean coughed slightly, and had the decency to appear embarrassed. "Her words, not mine. Then she started talking about the stars and crystal balls and the voices in her head, and I, uh, ran."

Seamus realised he'd gotten out of the whole Pansy situation pretty lightly, all things considered. "Oh," he murmured, and he had the kind of absent soft quality in his voice that one uses when one is likely to pass out as the mind attempts to insulate itself from the sheer insanity of daily life.

"So, are you in love with me?"

Seamus did not, despite his own prayers and expectations, pass out. He was denied the easy escape this time. "Er." Things were looking up. After all, he'd just said 'er' which had a far more respectable and longstanding tradition as a verbal indicator than, say, 'gah.' If he kept this up he might start making sense any minute now. Seamus thought about it and dismissed the possibility out of hand.

That was when Dean kissed him.

Seamus wasn't able to make any real kind of verbal indication; he was too busy going into shock. Dean's lips were warm against him, and smooth, and he could see the most minute details on Dean's skin, the pattern of his pores, a slight discolouration, a blackhead or two. The fact he needed to pluck between his eyebrows.

Ugh. But still, this was Dean, so in likelihood it would be a sexy monobrow. After all, Seamus had been raised to have faith in higher powers, and he trusted God not to fuck this up. But he trusted himself to do the exact opposite, and so very gently, he extricated himself and walked from the room without a word.

Some days were just too much. 

That night, Seamus avoided dinner, claiming he was nauseous. He could tell at least half his fellow Gryffindors thought he was lying, possibly to get attention, or make a scene, or something. In their eyes, he was probably contaminated and suspect and ostracised without realising it. After all, he'd hung around - in public no less - with a Slytherin. Please, someone take me out and bloody flog me, he thought. He just wanted some time alone, was that so much to ask?

Clearly it was, because he could hear the creak of the bedsprings as someone clambered onto his bed behind him. Seamus was lying on his side, on top of the sheets, facing away from the door, so he couldn't actually see who it was. Although he had a pretty good idea. Bugger. Bugger fuck titty fuck fuck fuck, and that was an understatement.

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back against the other person. Someone nuzzled against his hair. Dean smelled like cinnamon, pungent and aromatic. He was drowning in the scent.

"I thought you were straight," Seamus whispered, and didn't look back.

"Why ever did you think that?"

"Because I'm not the hero. I'm the sidekick, the comic relief. It doesn't matter if I get what I want. God isn't about to go all out just to make sure I'm happy."

There was a pause, and Dean nibbled at his neck, drew him closer. Seamus shivered. "Does this mean I can make you happy?"

"...Maybe." Seamus bit down on his lower lip. "We'd have to see," he added, deliberately offhand, because he could play things cool. Really. He was rakish. It was the accent.

Those same strong arms unfolded from around his chest, and turned him round. Seamus looked into warm brown eyes, and a finger traced the curve of his lips. "I thought you'd gone evil or something," Dean breathed.

"Nah," said Seamus, still speaking softly. They were the only two in the room, but it seemed wrong to break the mood. The fact they even had a mood seemed to be distinctly in Seamus' favour. "I was only kidding."

And then Dean grinned at him, and Seamus grinned back. He knew that he looked like a complete slackjawed yokel and did not give a fuck. Things were good between them again - better than good, better than he'd ever thought possible - and Seamus threaded his fingers into Dean's hair, curling them against his scalp, and wondered at the small sigh Dean let out as if it was the most amazing thing in the world.

This felt so very, _very_ right.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Dean murmured, and Seamus felt breathless and giddy, virtually floating. He hadn't even drunk anything.

"Oh?" He was squeaking, voice all high and reedy out of sheer shock and surprise, but again, not much with the caring.

A moment passed.

"So are you going to kiss me or what?" Seamus demanded, half-cross and felt something leap inside him at Dean's answering snort-turned-broad smile.

"Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist."

"We'll save that for later."

Dean tapped his nose. "You are impossible."

"And that's how you like me." Seamus' voice was breathy, his lilt noticeably stronger.

"Are you going to let me kiss you or are you going to keep talking?"

"Go ahead then."

Dean leaned forward. "Oh, just a minute, no!" Seamus cursed, and pressed a finger against Dean's lips. "One question, that's all, then full frontal snogging, I promise, with tongue and everything."

Seamus removed his finger from Dean's mouth and sighed, exhaling slowly. This was a very important question, one that decided whether he would be able to show his face ever again or have to skulk the corridors like the recluse he was.

Okay, maybe that was going a bit too far. But this was his story, in the end, and Seamus Kirkpatrick Finnigan could tell it whatever way he wanted it to be told.

"Do you think Draco Malfoy's at all good looking?" Seamus asked Dean, owlishly.

"Well," Dean said slowly, scrunching up his face in a way that Seamus was already mentally labelling as 'adorable'. "I suppose, you know, if you like Slytherins."

"Thank God," Seamus muttered, and kissed him. On the mouth. With tongue.

Felt bloody fantastic, really.

 


End file.
